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Again; Autumn

October 22, 2013
Every autumn I write ceremonially:
The smoke into the air,
The fire into the trees,
The watcher under a Hunter’s Moon,
The ache and solitude into the darkening hours, or
My own deliverance on the back of every southern bound bird,
Each frostbite sunrise a signal for that ritual song –
 
Make way for death, make way for death,
Set a place for death, lay out the
Fine porcelain and starch the sheets,
There are baked pears and salt meats,
With the last of the leavening grapes
Look for fallen shapes as even the leaves
Make way for our industrious guest –
Make way for death, make way for death.
 
We are gods and not gods of our unready lives
And every autumn that should never come as a surprise,
(Though does) makes for writing a quilt to lay across the shut in heart.
How good of nature to administer to us her medicine this way –
Easing us into the season of death with a breathless kiss at each axis:
Zenith colors – tree against tree – and sugars forcing the sweetest fruits,
Lights brightest, then dim, bare, now gone.
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